


oh, to be another greek tragedy

by neon_air



Series: think how i'm right here (ever, ever, ever) [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 20:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20494865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neon_air/pseuds/neon_air
Summary: Somedays, the world sits in Peter's chest.





	oh, to be another greek tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> ya bitch is Going Through It™ this is entirely just me venting and projecting onto peter, he's like my comfort character for this shit. i actually do have like a full, chaptered fic coming soon so keep an eye out for that!

Somedays, Peter felt like the world was pressing in on his chest.

He would wake up and feel like the world had shrunken down and settled in his chest.

It would press and press and press until Peter was convinced he’d never move again. The world would drag him six feet under if he moved. 

He wasn’t Atlas. Atlas, who could carry the weight, carry the burden while Peter could barely breathe. Atlas, who could speak and curse at the sky he was forced to hold up, while Peter could barely muster a whisper. Alta, who could stand and continue on, while Peter could only lie down and try not to cry.

If Peter was anyone, maybe he was Icarus. A boy destined to fly higher and higher and higher until his wings melted. Destined to soar through the sky before it dragged him down. Destined to touch the clouds before they buried in his head. Destined to sing to the sun just before it destroyed him.

Somedays, Peter felt like Icarus, like he was flying and soaring and laughing and then a moment later, he was falling. Icarus did not know he would fall, and maybe he had no qualms with falling, he still didn’t know.

Peter was the same.

His wings would beat, thrusting him higher and higher until suddenly his wings were gone and there was nothing to catch him, nothing to save him. All he could do was fall.

Falling was terrifying. The free fall brought tears to his eyes, a scream to his throat, and a kind of desperation that added to the weight of the world. He had no control, no hope, nothing.

But the most terrifying part of it was his lack of caring.

He would fly and he would fall and he would land and never once would he make a sound. That scream in his throat would never leave his lips. He would simply watch the sun get farther and farther away, watch the clouds become just white blotches in the sky, watch the sky never change.

Perhaps, he thought, it was better he didn’t make a sound. Maybe, if he closed his eyes, if he closed his mouth, and focused on nothing more than the world in his chest, then he’d be able to convince himself he had already hit the ground.

* * *

If Peter forced himself to move, dared to test the world and its ability to drag him under, he would do one of two things. 

He'd sit in the nook and stare out the window at the sky. Or he'd make a whisper. 

Neither was easy. He had the world in his chest after all. 

Sitting by the nook was easier. He could watch the sky from there. He could see the clouds and the sun and still have solid ground beneath him.

(That didn't matter. The weight of the world would tear him through the ground. He could not escape gravity, could not escape falling.) 

Making a whisper was hard. It required energy he didn't have. It required him to know that he hadn't hit the ground yet, that he was still falling. 

But there were days where he _needed _to make a sound; anything to know he was still alive, still falling or flying, it didn't matter. 

(Still, he never screamed. The silence afterward was too jarring. If he screamed, he'd never stop.) 

So he'd lie down with May, or he'd video chat with MJ and Ned and just sit there while they talked. 

He'd do something to remind him that he existed, falling or not.

To make a whisper was to exist. 

* * *

Somedays, Peter felt like the world was pressing in on his chest. 

It wasn't easy or fun or pretty. It threatened to drag him under the ground and suffocate him. It pulled him up into the air, only to burn his wings and his back. It held him underwater and watched with cold eyes, telling him to hold his breath. 

He did not scream but he did whisper. And perhaps that was enough, for now at least. 

To whisper. To breathe. To fly. To fall. To exist. 

Perhaps that was enough for at least now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Check out my tumblr: neon-air


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